


Duckling Deceased

by MorbidOptimist



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Coping Mechanisms, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Game(s), Skin Hunger, Species Dysphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 07:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidOptimist/pseuds/MorbidOptimist
Summary: The dust of the Prince's ruined tower has long since settled, leaving only memories and an (un)living casualty in its wake; the Fledgling pays a visit to the (official)Baron of Santa Montica, Therese Voerman, in hopes of soothing her troubled nerves.





	Duckling Deceased

“Ah,” Therese faux-breathed, as she looked up from her desk; her roving eyes no doubt drinking in details and forming decisions, “You’re a bit early. Sit, and I’ll be with you in a moment.” 

The command, which she chose to interpret as fond suggestion, was gentle enough in familiarity to allow herself to push down echos of LaCroix’s gold-gilded will and comply. 

Such memories were difficult to put away; the Prince’s stuffy room flickered within her nerves, the visage of his back looming before her self imposed like an after-image. 

She resisted the urge to comb fingers through her hair as she sat, knowing the strands wouldn’t be the correct length, or color, or shape.

Instead, she focused on dropping her awareness until the Voerman sisters’ apartment was little more than dim shadows of colors and shapes and only Therese, lit by her screen and the floor lamp, remained perfectly defined.

She wondered what her gaze must look like, as she watched the baron apathticly type herself into dull frustration. 

Immediately, she thought to chastise her own vanity before deflecting her inner monologues away from herself.

Quietly, her inner resolve looked forward to the prospect of returning to the underground, where the Sabot infiltrators and disenfranchised rabble would no doubt be waiting to beat her back into her place. 

For now, she reminded herself that for this moment, she would let herself be a person. 

Therese’s nails ceased clacking against the keys; the lack of expected sound snapping her attention directly to the way the baron’s hand tapped her empty frames. 

“Apologies,” Therese offered; “Some things came up.”

She nodded, the words already flowing effortlessly from her between her lips; “Events usually do, as I’ve learned.” 

Her pitch was calm, her undertones warm with lack of judgment that the baron innately understood; a pang in her soul called to her, to try desperately to break her words in any way for the older kindred to hear. 

The emotion was fleeting, as she rose from the little ottoman and slid forward the few simple steps it took to reach the baron’s desk.

Therese’s hand was not outstretched, but her face was not guarded, nor cold. 

She let her fingertips land delicately, one hand on the edge of the woodgrain, the other ever so respectfully to the baron’s face. 

She guided a few low handing strands away from Therese’s brow, flashes of desires unbidden behind her eyes, carnal, and falsely illuminated. 

She pushed the longings down as withdrew her hand from her friend’s face; reminding herself, that it didn’t do to dwell.

“I suppose you’ll have scrounged up another... example of cinematic divergency?” Therese asked, her tone of grateful amusement blended into her exhausted tolerances; “I’m... not quite sure I’m ready for more of your cartoons.”

A smile, broke unbidden against her lips. 

“I watch more than cartoons, you know," she replied merrily, "'Batman the animated series’ is admittedly, something more for myself and Jeanette,” she soothed honestly, noting every flicker of move and reaction from the woman over the mention of her sister’s name, unable even now, to stop herself from mediating; “I did bring you something, if you want,” she offered lightly; “A grim sort of fairytale I think you might stand. -However, as it appears to be just us this evening, I daresay you have a little more leeway in our choice of activities.” 

Therese seemed content with the assessment, and reassured in her stature; the woman’s eyes were so piercing, so keen; clouds of visions, fraught with feathers and black birds brought another smile and a small, light chuckle to her lips. 

Feeling more reassured herself, she braved a touch to Therese’s hand. 

She wondered who else, if any, dared and were allowed such entrances into the woman’s intimate proximities. 

The pride within her, assured her that she would never ask. 

Therese made no move nor reflex; she slid into her lap as water to its flask. 

It wasn’t until she was better pressed against her, her lips nearly pressed to Therese’s neck, that her body, her beast, finally relinquished its control. 

Relaxing, was something she really could not afford to do. 

And yet, Therese did not recoil or scream; she was not thrown to the floor or chastised for her need; Therese did not do much of anything, but allow her to drink in the feel of Therese’s suit fabric held neatly within her curling fingers and the dimly apparent thuds of dropped bass lines from the club down below. 

The notion that Therese trusted her, struck her once again. Lingering, somewhere barely within her core. 

Words tried to flow to her lips. 

She bit back ideas of sentiment, of gratitude, of pain. 

Therese had heard her voice them all before.

As memories passed through her mind, of long talks and tear-stained murmurs, a rumble started to tickle her throat. 

She was humming again; a habit only exhibited when she felt safe.

She felt Therese’s hand drift into her hair, with its wrong length and color-stained strands; noting, how much nicer it was when she wasn’t the one to do it.

“I do wish you would be more careful in your outings, pet;” Therese chided. Between the syllables, she heard the unspoken feelings, as she always did; ‘they don’t deserve to touch you’, ‘you’re too promising to get torn apart’, ‘one day I might grow weary of re-taming you’. 

“I never said that I was a good Toreador,” she deflected, almost meaninglessly. 

She hoped Therese heard the emotion her own curse wouldn’t allow her to speak; what she wouldn’t allow herself, to speak. 

Therese sighed, and set her glasses on her desk. 

“You’re artisanal enough,” Therese mused before her voice paused, and her candor dropped; “Sing for me?” 

The hum in her throat stopped.

In its place, bloomed a tiny, wilted murmur. 

Notes fell and gave way as fracticals of thought; intangible. Brief. 

She’d been talking with Jeanette too much, she noted; for her words to retain such dissociation. 

Therese's arms encircled her, tightly. 

When her notes flickered back out, the near-silence blanketed between them once more. 

She wondered if it was ironic of her, to keep running from her blood-traits and if in that at least, she and the woman holding her were the same. 

Perhaps, she thought, such sentiments were better left for the errand runs; her eye lips closed, her fingers laced into the baron’s hair. 


End file.
